


In Need of Quiet Affection and Gentle Words

by kinklock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Humor, M/M, Podfic Available, firmly in the zany online meeting genre, if you enjoy reading about scalp massages look no further, inspired by a prostate stimulation guide, trans inclusive language used
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-07 07:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7706005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinklock/pseuds/kinklock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John's girlfriend (of sorts) sends him an online sex guide, John finds himself more intrigued by the guide's author than anything his girlfriend might have had in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I wrote two semi-serious fics, and now I'm right back into... whatever this is. Basically, there was a prostate stimulation guide on my dash, and I read it like 'wow. Sherlock wrote this'. And now here we are. Here we are. 
> 
> If you're curious, the guide is [here](http://bottomlock.tumblr.com/post/144910666425/donzs). The only line I've taken from it directly is the last line, which also happens to be the fic's title. 
> 
> Thanks to Bruna & Soli for being my beta-readers <3 The torment has only just begun.
> 
> *** People have been Weird about this fic using trans inclusive language so I'll just say it up front: trans inclusive language !!! If you don't like that, you may have a bad time.

Their relationship ended with an email that started with an emoji, concluded with a string of kisses, and linked to an extensive prostate stimulation guide in the middle. Though for a few minutes John did entertain the possibility that calling things off was a hasty decision, the email did not improve upon rereading.

 

_;) Just wanted to let you know, if you’re interested, I’ve studied up ;) (http://...) Maybe you should do the same xxx_

 

It wasn’t that her message was presumptuous (though it was), or that he was offended by her offer (which he wasn’t). It was the implication that John, a bloody doctor, needed a guide on how to palpate a prostate. She couldn’t have forgotten that, could she?

 

And there was the rub, the reason why it seemed undeniable that this fling was over before it had even gotten off the ground—she honestly might have. His being a doctor might have just slipped her mind, given the nature of their superficial, no strings attached relationship—as dictated by her, not him. Not that it was anyone’s fault. She had made it clear from the outset that she didn’t want anything serious, or monogamous. They were adults, John had thought, and a friends with benefits arrangement was technically “doing something,” though John imagined that was not what his therapist had envisioned when she suggested it.

 

The sex was better than none, but John thought a woman had to be a bit mad to want to be with him in any capacity at the moment, and maybe that was the next largest issue with this relationship. He lived in a bedsit. He hadn’t found a job yet, and when he eventually did, he already knew it would bore him. He rarely slept through the night. He slept in every day. He was spending his meager funds at an alarming rate. He had lost his calling. After creating that list in his mind, John didn’t know what any person could see in him. Maybe he should have been clinging to this one, actually. Maybe he should have been studying up after all, like she’d suggested.

 

John poured out two fingers of the scotch he had splurged on last week and, after a healthy sip, found himself a bit curious about the guide, from a technical standpoint. While he didn’t want to arouse his patients, there might be new tips for how to increase their comfort hidden in the linked file. John wouldn’t want his arrogance, if he had any left, to get in the way of that.  

 

Before reading the guide, John wondered if the contents would err on the side of the clinical, or the pornographic. What he discovered, after copying and pasting the link into his web browser, was a strange mix of both.

 

Bowel movements were mentioned within the first sentence. Well, John thought, this is already stupendous _._ John read on, expecting the same detached tone that was used to discuss enemas to continue into the more amorous parts of the proceedings. However, while language and style remained unchanged, John was surprised by the suggestions for how to “warm” the partner up. A bum rub and analingus were listed in the same breath as spanking, for God’s sake, and John had to wonder who the hell had written this with such a serious and determined air. The guide informed him that if enough warm up was provided, the partner in question might even beg for it, which had John’s eyebrows meeting his hairline, and his lips meeting the rim of his scotch glass.

 

From there, it was rubbing the perineum to approach the prostate from another angle, and to focus on only fingering, which could stimulate the prostate without direct touch. John wasn’t sure he had been aware of that. Then, oral sex, and annilingus suggested _again_ , though with the caveat that edible lube or saliva should be used instead. The guide also warned to not be taken aback if the partner was surprisingly vocal, or by the larger amount of semen produced. John felt like he should have been taking notes.

 

However, nothing surprised John more than the concluding sentence, which, of an otherwise detailed and anatomical lesson plan, informed him that his partner would be vulnerable, sensitive and open, and that they might be “in need of quiet affection and gentle words.” Underneath, the guide was signed off with a simple set of initials, “ _SH”_.

 

At some point, John’s hand had lifted to cover his mouth. His face felt warm from a varied series of facial expressions, and now from smiling. Whoever had written this, no matter how practical they perhaps thought themselves, had obviously included their own personal preferences throughout. John attempted to imagine this _“SH”_ —clinical, detailed, intelligent, but also sensitive, and a bit oblivious. Someone knowledgeable in sexual technique, but who also required that their emotional needs be met. It was...cute, in a way.

 

John thought he understood. While he might not have phrased it as vulnerability, he did like a cuddle, and in his more recent sex life, that hadn’t been on the table. He had sex guides in his inbox, but nothing resembling the simple comforts of soft, post-sex intimacy. He missed it.

 

“Well, I’m happy for you, whoever you are,” John told the guide. “You know what you like, and with someone as fastidious as you, I bet you’re getting it. From someone.”

 

Though, he could have been wrong about that. John knew what he liked (which in this case wasn't having his prostate massaged, and definitely not by a casual fling), and it didn't mean he was getting it from someone. After reading SH's guide, John could admit he was far more interested in being the massager (masseuse?) himself, especially if that was how his hypothetical partner would react to it.

 

John loved pleasing his partners, and if nothing else, this guide had provided him with ample knowledge on how to please someone interested in a bit of fingering, moving forward. John had known himself to be attracted to men, who often had prostates, whether they preferred having them stimulated or not, but he had shied away from going through with anything, many times. When he was younger, it had been due to the lingering shadow his father seemed to cast over his life. Now, it was the fear of entering into an unknown world at his time of life. For example, prostate stimulation. John hadn't known half of this stuff. If he ever got up the courage to try on a relationship with someone who did have a prostate now, he supposed he would owe this SH a certain debt of gratitude.

 

John looked the guide over and noticed that below the initials, there was a postscript.

 

_P.S. If you are in need of further assistance, you may contact me via email. I will respond at my own discretion. Interesting enquiries only, please._

 

“Via email” was hyperlinked, and when John clicked on it, a new message window popped up on his screen.

 

John was bored, alone, and contemplating ending things with the only person who wanted anything to do with him. He figured emailing the writer of a sex guide he had enjoyed might be a laugh, or at least better than the alternative. Why the hell not? The least he could was thank the person.

 

John attempted to compose a message. He attempted it seven times. John typed out “Hi,” then backspaced. He typed out “Thanks… for all of that,” then highlighted it all with his mouse, and pressed delete. John started and stopped the message another five times over the next five minutes, until his therapist’s advice came to him in his hour of need. _Just write, John. Don’t think about the words. Allow yourself to be honest on your blog. Just express your own thoughts without self-criticism._

 

Easy for Ella to say. That was much harder to do in practice, especially with the pressure to be “interesting.” All the same, John wasn’t a quitter. With slow pecks of his index fingers against the keyboard, he wrote:

 

_Hi,_

 

_First off, thanks for putting all that together. As a doctor, I have to say the guide was quite thorough, and your understanding of anatomy was impressive. I sort of wonder if you’re in the profession yourself, or if you’ve just really swotted up on this particular area. I’m not sure what I was expecting when I was sent a guide on prostate massage, but yours was brilliant._

 

_You included your email for further assistance, and I guess I got curious about some of it. I can’t promise to be interesting. Not sure what an interesting response to a prostate massage guide would even be. I could tell you I’m in the midst of a fingering emergency, but I’d be lying. Anyway, I’m sure I’ve already blathered on long enough._

 

After two paragraphs of success, John paused. He needed to ask a question for this email to have an actual purpose, and he couldn’t just write “I sort of wanted to know what you were actually like, as a person.” For reasons John didn’t want to examine too closely, he didn’t want SH to discount him or ignore his email. He wanted to be one of the interesting enquiries, but he didn’t want to seem clueless, either. John might have been an amateur about sexual relationships with men, but if the person had a prostate, he knew how to find it, at least. And that gave him an idea. Before he could lose his nerve, John typed:

 

_Previously, I’ve only ever done anything like this to patients. With a partner, I wouldn’t want to come across as overly clinical by mistake. Any tips, or things to avoid?_

 

_Thanks if you decide this is interesting. If you don’t, thanks anyway._

 

_JHW_

 

There. That should do it. Before he could rethink it, John pressed send. He stood from his chair and cracked his back, surveying his one room kingdom. He felt better having written the email. More optimistic, somehow. Life would continue, even if he called it quits with his (sort of) girlfriend. John decided to treat himself to some Indian, feed himself up. After making the call, he considered writing a blog post (" _Sent an email to a bloke about how to best rub a prostate, lads."_ ), which at least brought a smile to his face almost as readily as reading the guide had.  

It was only after John tucked into his Indian delivery that he realised he had been operating under the assumption that SH was a man. Technically, it could have been a woman writing about how to stimulate her partner, or a woman with a prostate. Which was fine. Only, John had hoped SH was writing as someone who enjoyed being on the receiving end, which probably meant a man. As John wondered if he would ever find out for sure, his computer pinged.

 

A new email received. He wished he knew how to turn those notification alert sounds off.

 

Leaning over his desk to open his laptop again, John expected to find a new sexually adventurous email from his soon to be ex on the proper use of rope or silk ties, only to find a reply. From SH.  

 

Indian forgotten, John pushed the styrofoam container aside, and clicked a few too many times to open the message.

 

_Hello JHW,_

 

_Or should I say, Doctor John H. Watson? Not clear whether you intended to send me a message from an email address connected to your personal blog, but this either shows a complete lack of self-consciousness about enquiring into best sex practices, or ineptitude on your part. Based on your inability to delete posts from your blog, I conclude the latter. Either way, you needn’t have worried about not making your email interesting. An ex-army doctor asking me for tips is the fastest way to a response. It’s the least I could do for our veterans._

 

“Fuck,” John said aloud, as his forehead hit the desk. “Fucking buggery fuck.” He had entirely forgotten that the email application on his computer, which had automatically opened when he had clicked the hyperlink, was synced with his blog’s email. His blog email that ended with @johnwatsonblog.co.uk. And now SH had also seen his personal blog. Shite.

 

Once his level of embarrassment had gone down from “wanting to die” to “really wishing he hadn’t done that”, John read on.

 

_As for your question: while I suspect I’m not the best person to ask about how to not seem clinical, I believe the techniques outlined in the guide should help. For example, dirty talk and teasing touch, which I assume are not part of your clinical practice. I also suggest taking your time. It’s not an examination, unless that interests your partner._

 

_And, as for your implied question, we do not share the same profession, but I am flattered that you found the guide thorough._

 

_May I ask who sent it to you? I have an interest in how my material is distributed._

 

_Thank you for your interesting enquiry,_

 

_SH_

 

As soon as John reached the end of the email, he hit reply. His mortification spurred him to respond, what little good it would do. SH thought he was an idiot, obviously, which bothered him a lot more than it should have.

 

“I’m a tit,” John typed, and kept it. Maybe he could salvage some of his image if he showed a little self-awareness.

 

_I’m a tit. An idiot, really. I completely forgot about my email, and yeah, my “ineptitude.” I’m not good at computers. Never got the hang of them. Usually, my mistakes are deleting my entire contacts list, rather than directing a sex guru stranger to my personal blog, but I guess it was only a matter of time before my technical issues escalated. This is probably predictable, but it’d be great if we could keep this between the two of us. I mean, me asking you about the guide._

 

_Thanks for answering my question. I guess you did already go over that, yeah. My partner sent it to me, if that helps._

 

_You’re welcome, I suppose,_

_John_

 

And that’s the end of that, John thought, but there was a response in his inbox before he even had time to reopen his take-out container.

 

_John,_

_There’s no need to be embarrassed. Everyone’s an idiot. I don’t intend that as an insult, it’s just the truth._

 

John snorted. It was clear SH viewed themselves exempt from the “everyone” who was an idiot. It was also clear that while the statement was arrogant, SH was attempting to make John feel less humiliated. It was a terrible attempt, and didn’t make John feel better at all, but it was at least funny. This appeared to be SH’s idea of how to console someone. John was smiling again. He continued reading.

 

_I imagine I should be flattered again by being labeled a ‘sex guru’, and thank you for responding to my enquiry. If you’re amenable, I would like to make a case study of your use of the guide. I have a few simple questions. First, did your partner intend for you to follow the guide’s instructions, or to be the receiver? A warning: if you respond, I will assume you are comfortable being questioned further._

_SH_

 

John stared at the screen. SH wanted to continue chatting about the guide, apparently, and John found he wanted to continue chatting with SH. He responded as if they were texting, rather than writing a formal email.

 

_I believe the receiver, as I’m the one with the prostate. - John_

 

_I see. Then your question earlier was not with your current partner in mind. SH_

 

The tone of the email could not have been more clear than if, when it had opened, the sound of a record screeching had been played. John’s question had not been with his current partner in mind, which now definitely made John seem like a cheater. John rushed to clear his good name, for the second time in his short history of interaction with SH.

 

_Yeah, I guess I was getting ahead of myself. Things aren’t serious with the partner who sent it to me. Er, that sounds bad. She doesn’t want it to be serious._

 

The fingers of John’s left hand curled into his palm, halting his typing. He stood from his chair, and poured himself another two fingers. After a fortifying gulp of scotch, John attempted to explain why he had asked anything in the first place.

 

_The guide got me thinking about it, was all. You made it sound like the receiver was having a… good time, and I guess it interested me. To be able to do that for someone, I mean. At some point. In the future. God, I shouldn’t be saying any of this, especially when you know my name. Though, maybe you get it, seeing as you write sex guides where you get really personal. Christ, I’m rambling again. Point is, I’m not a cheater. Just so we’re clear._

 

John sent the email, and everything was starting to feel a bit warm and fuzzy about the edges. Maybe he shouldn’t have been having this conversation while buzzed. His recent poor health had left him with a much lower tolerance, if he couldn’t even handle a scotch or two.

 

The response back was slower than before. Anxiety spiking, John wondered if SH really did think he was a cheater, and was about to write a post on John’s blog to let everyone know of John’s love of anal fingering guides as a form of vigilante justice.

 

His computer pinged.

 

_John,_

 

_I don’t think you’re a “cheater”, and if what you’ve described is the case, then I’m glad you found the guide. You are its intended audience. To be clear, I don’t really write sex guides. I wrote this one because all other instructions online and otherwise were complete rubbish. They never stick to the facts, and not enough time is spent describing the before and after._

 

_What did you mean when you said the guide was “really personal”? I don’t understand. I reread the guide. I don’t see anything about me as a person in it at all. Explain._

 

_SH_

 

John had a feeling the second paragraph of the email was the culprit for why this email had taken longer than the others. It was obvious SH didn’t like not understanding, and that they had never considered that their personal experience was not necessarily universal. Some people were more than capable of having anal sex without needing affection or attention paid to them afterwards.

 

It was sweet, in a way, that SH believed with their entire seemingly logical mind that vulnerability would need to be taken into consideration. Naive, even, though John doubted SH would like to be described that way. SH was clearly experienced, and not innocent in that regard.

 

The scotch glass was empty when John’s fingers hit the keys again.

 

_You mentioned things that could make someone beg, and affection and vulnerability after. Not everyone, er, begs, and not everyone feels like that afterward. I mean, I don’t know for sure, but I’m pretty sure that for some people, sex is just sex._

 

The response time was almost negligible.

 

_I see. I will adjust it accordingly. SH_

 

_Don’t!_ John rushed to say. That was the last thing he wanted.

 

_Don’t change it. Please. It was those details that made it so charming when I read it. You’re right, people might want to know that. Those are the important details. They want to know what you personally felt and enjoyed, in case maybe they’re like you._

 

_Like me_ , John might have written, had he been more sloshed. People like John, who sought that emotional connection with sex, and struggled to find it.

 

_Why do they want to know? And what people? SH_

 

John laughed. There was a warm feeling in his gut where the booze had settled, and he was enjoying himself, speaking to this odd person. Honesty came easier like this, with a bit of a buzz, and with someone he liked. It was beyond bizarre, really. John didn’t get on with people easily. He had a tendency to rub them up the wrong way, in fact.

 

Perhaps it was the fun of interacting with SH that made John want to encourage him to not shutter away any of that openness, which had clearly been included in the guide by accident. If by doing so he made the conversation awkward, it wasn’t as if there would be future run-ins with SH at the shops afterward. And so, John answered with as much truthfulness as he could muster.

 

_I can only speak for myself, I suppose. As for why people would want to know, let’s just say it wasn’t your description of enemas that made me want to try it with someone. It was the way you made it sound. It was the… enjoyment. The emotion. The “need for quiet affection and soft words.”_

 

John ate the rest of his Indian food while he waited for a response. He waited a long while, and once he started to sober up, was a bit horrified with everything he had written to this complete and utter stranger. A stranger who knew exactly who John was. The exchange had been embarrassing from start to finish, and John closed his laptop for the night with the intention of pushing it from his mind entirely.

 

Except, John went to bed inebriated enough to be restless, unable to stop imagining what voice might murmur, _“I’m flattered”,_ and woke the next day in anticipation. John expected a terse yet amusing reply from SH in his inbox, and was soundly disappointed when he booted up to discover no new messages. There was no reply later that morning, or that afternoon, when John came back to the flat after a long walk. Or in the evening, after John came back to the flat following an aimless trip to the shops. Which made a world of sense, given the fact that it was an email exchange between two people who knew nothing about each other. Except one person knew quite a lot about the other one, and remembering that got John peeved enough to send a follow up. Certain he was right, John wrote back:

 

_Are you embarrassed that I said it was emotional?_

 

John’s computer pinged as if SH had been waiting for the excuse to answer all day.

 

_I’m not embarrassed. Why would I be embarrassed? And you didn’t say emotional. You said “The emotion”. SH_

 

The next set of emails were written and received so quickly that the response time approached the speed of a conversation.

 

_Right, why would you? I’m the only one embarrassed here, of course, because you know who I am ;-)_

 

_Is that winking? Is the winking meant to indicate sarcasm? This email chain is too long. Get a decent email so we can use a chat system instead. SH_

 

_It is meant to indicate sarcasm, and okay, what’s a decent email? What are we chatting about?_

 

_Nothing. Fine. I’ve answered your questions. There is no further need to email back and forth. SH_

 

_Don’t be a git. I was just surprised that you wanted to chat, that was all. What’s a decent email? AOL?_

 

_I don’t know why you would be surprised when I made it perfectly clear that I wanted to make your use of the guide into a case study and said I had a set of questions. And get a gmail account, John, for God’s sake, it’s not the 90s. SH_

 

_All right. Okay. I’m on it. I’ll message you from there._

 

_I am all anticipation. SH_

  
_No need to be sarcastic_ , John responded, and then did as he was told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed..... alla that


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's back, and more ludicrous than ever. A note about formatting: Apology in advance to people who have no love for epistolary, cause there's some chat messaging in your near future. I've used '>' to mark a chat message, and italics for when Sherlock is speaking. 
> 
> Also, sorry for the GIANT extra spaces between every line that AO3 adds in, if I have time I may fix that later. 
> 
> Thank you to my BETA SQUAD that came out for this chapter, Bruna, Soli and Robin.

**January 30th**  


_ > Well, I’ve at least confirmed that you’re not a liar. SH _

> What?

> _You really aren’t very good at technology. SH_

> Oi.

> _Don’t be like that. With a real email and everything, you’re well on your way. SH_

> Are you really going to put your initials after every chat message? And did you actually have questions, or did I do this just to be mocked?

> _I see your typing speed is as predicted. SH_

> _Yes, I generally like to sign with initials, and yes, I do have questions. For starters, you mentioned that the guide made you interested in fingering another person because it made it seem as if the receiver were enjoying the experience. Is that an accurate interpretation?_

> …

> _John._

> Christ. Yes, that’s an accurate interpretation of what I meant.

> _Interesting._

> Interesting how?

> _Most people would want to be the person enjoying it._

> I don’t know about most people, but I like pleasing who I’m with.

> _I see._

> I’m usually pretty good at it, too.  

> _Oh. Cocky._

> Just honest. Same as you thinking everyone’s an idiot but you.

> _I didn’t say that._

> You implied it.

> _Allow me to go further then imply, then. Everyone else is an idiot._

> Right. I knew it. You’re a right arrogant sod.

> _I thought I was “just honest”. Returning to my earlier attempt to summarise, we’ve established that reading the guide made you interested in fingering someone’s anus._

> Jesus.

> _What now?_

> You’re a bit blunt, is all. Yeah, okay, yes. It did. I don’t know if that’s how everyone would respond, though.  

> _No. In fact, I’m sure that it’s not._

> Anything else?

> SH?

> OK. Bye, then.

  


**January 31st**

> _How often do you consult sex guides on the internet?_

> Christ.

> _Something wrong again?_

> Maybe I’m not up to speed on internet chat etiquette, but usually, it’s nice to let the other person know when you’re leaving.

> _Oh. There was something urgent I had to attend to. Apologies for leaving abruptly._

> Urgent?

> _Yes. For work._

> Ha. I knew it! Fingering emergencies ARE real.

> _It wasn’t for my sex guide writing work. As I said before, I’m not really a guide writer. It was a one time thing._

> Sex guru by day,

> _Oh, God._

> Urgent mysterious work by night. Do you mind if I ask what you do?

> _I don’t mind._

> OK. What do you do?

> _Answer my question first._

> What was your question?

> _How often do you consult sex guides on the internet? I do hate repeating myself._

> So sorry. And if I answer this, you’ll answer my question? It’s only fair.

> _Was that apology sarcastic? You didn’t use a winking face. And I suppose that would be fair. Like a barter system. All the same, answer._

> Yes, it was sarcastic. I’ll make sure to use a winking face from now on. And, no, I don’t consult sex guides on the internet. I haven’t often had to. That is, I’m not usually doing things I’m not already well-versed in.

> _I see._

> Like I said, my girlfriend sent it to me. I wasn’t out looking for it. Now it’s your turn.

> _I am a consulting detective._

> A what?

> _I believe I did just say that I hate repeating myself._

> And now I’ve made you repeat that you hate repeating yourself. Sorry ;-) Feel free to elaborate on what a consulting detective is.

> _I notice that your apologies to me are never sincere. The police consult me whenever they are out of their depth, which is often._

> Yep. An arrogant sod, you are.

> _You’re only “arrogant” if you can’t back it up._

> And you can?

> _How else would I know you have an intermittent hand tremor and an alcoholic brother?_

> _John?_

> Have you been bloody spying on me?

> _John, please. Think rationally. I have no motive for investigating you. These are simply clear from you and your blog. If you hadn’t emailed me from your personal blog, I might have also been able to deduce you were invalidated recently from overseas, but you gave that away quite easily._

> Okay. I’m being rational now. How did you know that stuff.

> _It’s hardly an impressive deduction. Your blog tells me almost everything I need to know. The hand tremor was easy, since you mentioned not being much for the scalpel any more. Harry’s alcoholism was even easier, given your nervous reaction to Harry suggesting you have a drink sometime. These were only inferences from text. I can tell much more from observing in person._

> Brilliant. Except for one thing.

> _What?_

> Harry is not my brother.

> _Oh. Sister. Damn._

> Still, very impressive.

> _I could do so much more in person._

> Oh, I bet you could.

> _Well, yes. I just said so._

> That you did. Well, I’m calling it a night.

> _Oh. All right._

> I’m sure you’ll have your next question for the case study ready for me tomorrow.

> _Oh, yes. I will._

> Till then.  


 

 **February 1st**  

> _What is your sexuality?_

> You really don’t mess about, do you.

> _You said I could ask you another question today. It was implied that, in exchange, you would be able to ask me a question as well._

> True, yeah, that’s what we decided. Okay. Well, I’m not gay, if that’s what you’re asking.

> _I asked for your sexuality. I didn’t ask for what you are not._

> Right, yes. I just meant I don’t want you thinking that the girlfriend I mentioned was a front 'cause I’m in the closet. I’m not using her as a beard or anything.

> _I didn’t say you were. I asked about your sexuality. For my case study. Is this line of questioning making you uncomfortable?_

> No, of course not.

> _Then we have established that you’re interested in women. Is that all?_

> No.

> _So, your girlfriend isn’t your beard. But you are in the closet. Clearly._

> What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?

> _You said you were looking for it sometime in the future, though I suspect that you only admitted that while drunk._

> That is not on. And I wasn’t drunk.

> _Buzzed, then. Tipsy. Liquid courage._

> How the hell could you possibly know that?

> _I could tell from the change in your writing, and the content. You spoke more openly and were less reserved as the emails continued._

> Right, I was less reserved. So much so that I embarrassed you.

> _You didn’t embarrass me._

> Then why didn’t you respond for a day?

> _I told you, I’m a consulting detective. I had a case._

> Ah, right, a sex detective.

> _John, for the last time, my job is not to do with sex._

> Right. Tell me more about that. You mentioned the police. Do you work for them officially?

> _Yes. Sort of._

> What do you mean, sort of? Do I even want to know what that means? Are you a vigilante.

> _You don’t want to know what it means, so you’re going to guess instead of letting me answer? I mean official-ish._

> I’ve got it. Costumed vigilante. Who solves sex cases. The Sex Guru.

> _Now you’re just being silly._

> Don’t be shy. Tell me your superhero name.

> _I’m not being shy. This is off-topic._

> Right. Back to why I want to massage a bloke’s prostate, and how.

> _So you do want to use the guide on a man?_

> Why do I feel like I played into your hand here?

> _Because you did. Please feel free to continue doing so._

> You know, this is all making me feel a bit exposed, “SH”.

> _Meaning?_

> Can I at least get your name.

> _Oh. Sherlock._

> That was. Well, easier than I expected. And I can tell you’re not lying - that’s got to be your real name.

> _Why? What do you mean?_

> No one could come up with that for their fake name. Besides, you seem like a Sherlock.

> _Do I?_

> Is your hair cut close to your head?

> _Not really. Oh. This is the name origin. I didn’t realise you could search and type at the same time._

> I’m getting better at this stuff :-D

> _Why do your emoticons always have noses?_

> 'Cause people have noses, and they’re supposed to be people’s faces. Do the kids not do them with noses anymore?

> _I wouldn’t know. I’m not a kid._

> I hope not, what with the sex guides. Good to know.

> _Just ask._

> Just ask what?

> _How old I am. You clearly want to know._

> Okay. How old are you?

> _A little younger than you._

> Oh, and how old am I?

> _Your birth year came up in a google search._

> Really, did it :-)? I should look into that. But that doesn’t answer my question. What’s “a little younger”?

> _Three years and six months._

> Right. Hmm. But how many seconds?

> _You’re being silly again._

> When people ask you how old you are, do you say 29 and a quarter?

> _Now you’re mocking me._

> I’m only teasing ;-)  

> _How is that different?_

> Mocking is mean, teasing is fun.

> _I see. Tone is sometimes lost in text-only communication._

> I’m sure you’d do better in person, as you keep saying.

> _Yes, I would do better. In person._

> Right.

> Well. So, you may have gathered this from what I said already, but anyway. I’m bi.

> I never really answered your question, but you told me about your name and age, and that’s not how the barter system was meant to work, so. I answered you.

> _Thank you for answering, John. I will note that in my case study notes. Anonymous, of course._

> You’re welcome, Sherlock. Are you 29 and a quarter, by the way?

> _More like 29 and a twelfth._

> So I just missed your birthday, then? Happy belated.

_ > Thank you. _

> Till the next question?

> _Yes, till the next one._

  


**February 2nd**

> _How soon do you expect to use the guide in practice?_

> _John?_

> Sorry, I was out when you messaged me.

> _Out? Out where?_

> _Never mind. Don’t bother answering that. Job interview, obvious._

> How do you do that?

> _I deduce. I believe it’s polite to ask how the interview went?_

> I didn’t think you were interested in politeness, but it went fine. Just locum work.

> _Sounds thrilling._

> It’s boring as hell, actually. Or so I suspect. But I need the work.

> _Hmm._

> What?

> _Nothing. See my first question above. Which you still haven’t answered._

> “I don’t know” is my answer to that question. Depends.

> _Depends on what?_

> Meeting someone. The right someone.

> _You live in hope of the right partner._

> That makes me sound a bit like an Austen heroine, but yeah, I suppose.

> Are you really trying to estimate the time between reading and applying? Seems like a lot of detail that would be quite variable, even for someone trying to make a case study of the guide’s use. Which is already. A lot of detail. For a sex guide.

> Sherlock?   

> _I like to be thorough in everything I do. Even this._

> Right. Are there more case studies?

> _What do you mean?_

> I mean, is this a sample size of one? Have you gotten anyone else to read it and provide feedback? Maybe one of your partners?

> _No._

> I just figured you’d probably get them to swot up first beforehand, so you’d already have some readers at your disposal.

> _Beforehand. Before what?_

> Sherlock, come on. Sex. What else.

> Sherlock?

> _As you clearly want me to make a case study of someone else, I apologise if my in depth questions about the guide have been annoying. I can stop at any time._

> No, no, that’s not what I mean at all. The questions are fine. Besides, I like chatting with you.

> _Do you?_

> Yeah. I just said I did. I don’t like to repeat myself ;-)

> _I see I’m being teased again._

> Yes. :^)

> _I will ask you another question again tomorrow, then. According to our barter system, you get to ask me one now._

> Right. Okay. What’s your favourite food?

> _I’m not sure I understand why it matters, but biscuits, I suppose._

> A sweet tooth!

> _Hardly. I like the plain ones._

> I bet you don’t. I bet you like the ones with chocolate on one side.

> _Ridiculous._

> You’re ridiculous ;-)

> _Good comeback. I’m leaving_.

> Till your next question tomorrow, then ;-)

  


**February 3rd**

> _I sent you an email. Respond with your thoughts here._

> Sherlock, you sent me a photo of toes.

> Oh my god.

> Those are a dead person’s toes, aren’t they. That is a dead person.

> _Perfectly sound analysis, though I was hoping you’d go deeper._

> Sherlock, should I even be seeing this?

> _I doubt the owner of the toes will mind, John._

> Jesus. Those are needle marks, aren’t they?

> _Excellent observation. I’m sending you a close up._

> _Did you get it?_

> Yeah, yeah, I got it. Judging from the sites, whatever pricked this person happened after they were dead.

> _Aha! Excellent._

> Excellent? Are we sure it’s excellent?

> _Yes, quite sure._

> I feel like I just got pop quizzed. A bit different than your usual questions. What was the point, exactly?

> _Proving a point, actually._

> What point?

> _I believe I’ve impressed upon you that I can do much more in person._

> Yes. You have.

> _Care to put it to the test?_

> Sorry in advance if this is a gross misunderstanding, but are you asking me to meet you?

> _Yes, I am. Problem?_

> No, not a problem. Not necessarily. Are you going to tell me your full name now, or leave that for when we meet?

> _Sherlock Holmes._

> _William Sherlock Scott Holmes, in fact. That’s the whole of it. Now, according to our barter system, you have to tell me what the H in John H. Watson stands for._

> Oh, is that our barter system? Is that what we decided?

> _Yep._

> So, you’ve answered all the same questions that I've answered? I don’t remember that.

> _Receiver, not often, gay, soon. There, I think that covers it._

> ???

> _Honestly, John. I answered the questions._

> Nice try :^) When and where are we meeting, and why?

> _A case, John. I’ll email you the details._

> OK.

  


+

 

Ella might have scrawled “trust issues” into her little black book on John’s last visit, but she would have been surprised to learn that all it took to gain John Watson’s trust was chat messaging about a prostate guide every day for a week. Or, at least, enough trust for John to agree to meet said chat messenger from the internet, in the flesh. It was enough to make a man feel young again.

 

It was also enough to make a man suspect he was about act like a foolhardy idiot, but John would burn that bridge when he got there. After the photo of dead toes, a saner person would be more reluctant to agree to a meeting. But John had a therapist, so he was allowed to be a bit looser there. Besides, Sherlock, like John, kept a personal blog, which fit every detail Sherlock had provided about his profession so far. Creating an entire website seemed too elaborate a ruse just to catfish someone, if it even counted as catfishing, seeing as Sherlock had never sent John a photo. John’s imagination had been forced to do some heavy lifting on that front, and frankly, it was ready to call it a day.

 

Sherlock had not included a photo of himself in the email—subject line “Details”—and so John had braved the tube and arrived at the suggested meeting spot in the hopes of seeing the real thing himself.

 

Their meeting location was a ten minute walk from Highgate station on a painfully residential street. John waited at the corner, as instructed, and resisted checking his watch. Zipping his jacket up higher against the cold, John eyed each passerby who strolled past: an old man in a burgundy cardigan walking a dog, and speaking to it as well; a young, frazzled mother, pushing a set of twins, all elbows and food stains; a pack of primary school students scurrying past, uniform-clad and smiling with gap teeth. None stopped to chat, to John’s immense relief.

 

When a shadow at last drifted over John’s shoulder, prompting John to twist around till he faced the sneaky, bean-pole of a man behind him, John made two important discoveries.

 

The first: “You’re him, are you?”

 

This was phrased as a question, even though John could have picked this man out of any line-up as the Sherlock he was meant to be meeting. In the same way that Sherlock wrote like a Sherlock, he looked and acted like one too. Redolent of sweet coconut hair product, and standing far too close by any acceptable social norm, this was the man who called John silly, and needed emoticons to help him better understand sarcasm.

 

The second: John had it bad.

 

Who had John been fooling? Certainly not himself. Not successfully, at any rate.

 

Had even a small part of himself believed that he had agreed to meet this man off the net just as friends? As if Sherlock hadn’t indirectly told John, in no uncertain terms, the exact way that he liked to have sex; as if John hadn’t contacted Sherlock because of how much he wanted to fit the bill; as if Sherlock hadn’t asked John about his sexuality, and then told John he was gay; as if John hadn’t dusted off his date shoes, worn his best shirt, and put product in his hair (not anything even close to sweet smelling coconut, but the cheap stuff an army pension could afford); as if John’s mind had been occupied by anything or anyone else since Sherlock had begun a case study with John as his only sample.  

 

Craning his neck to look up into a face as intriguing as its owner’s manual on how to work your way into his body, John knew he was in for it. Had he ever had a crush on someone like this, someone he hadn’t even met before—hadn’t even seen yet—in his entire life? No, absolutely not, but apparently, it was never too late to start.

 

Offering John a dark, gloved hand, with his torso bending at the waist, head ducking down, dark eyelashes fanning out with eyebrows mere brush strokes above them, the man who was Sherlock said, “Yes, I’m him.”

 

The answer was shy yet sardonic, in the same way the guide had been both technical and revealing. John sank deeper.

 

John shook the hand, wishing he was wearing a pair of gloves that soft and supple to the touch. “As you might have gathered, I’m John.”

 

This was enough to make Sherlock smile; John made note of that. “Yes, I know,” Sherlock said, one eyebrow lifted. ”I have seen a photo of you, on your blog.”

 

Right. John hadn’t thought much about that. Was that a flattering photo of him? He should have picked that photo with more care, but he only had so many, and it was ridiculous for a man his age to take photos of himself. God, what had Sherlock been picturing him like?

 

“And how do I hold up?” John asked. His tongue ducked out from behind his lips to lick at the corner of his mouth. Though he couldn’t recall when, he had assumed parade’s rest.

 

Sherlock’s head tipped further forward, causing his fringe to swing over his forehead. Despite his advantage in height over John, it was as if Sherlock was attempting to look up at John from beneath his eyelashes.

 

“It’s a terrible photo,” Sherlock said. No nonsense. Just honesty, of the brutal variety.

 

“Right,” John said. He laughed, not quite sure if he was even offended, or if he even should be. But Sherlock’s cheeks pinkened, and any ego damage the previous comment might have done to John was repaired.

 

“I meant that it doesn’t quite look like you. Not really. Cameras can never entirely capture the true image. There is always distortion, and—”

 

“It’s fine,” John said, before Sherlock could launch into an in depth analysis of camera lenses and their weaknesses. John smiled to show that it was fine, all fine. John even winked, to make it clear. A living emoticon. “Despite all that distortion, though, you still recognised me.”

 

“Yes! Yes,” Sherlock rushed to say. His eyes shuttered closed. He cleared his throat. “More to the point, John, are you ready?”

 

John nodded. “Yep. Ready. Though, ready for what?”

 

Bemused, Sherlock replied, “To help me with my case.”

 

“Yeah, that’s what I came here for. To help. Except—”

 

“Good,” Sherlock interrupted, and with one long leg stretching out in front of him, he was off.

 

“—you haven’t told me anything. Hey!” John resorted to jogging to catch up.

 

Speaking to the back of Sherlock’s perfectly coiffed head, John continued, “You do realise that your email included no details beyond where we were meeting?”

 

Sherlock made no reply. Sherlock did, however, veer at a ninety degree angle towards a narrow stone path, which led to a bungalow in desperate need of a fresh paint job. The curtain in the window to the right of the front door was drawn back when John turned towards the house, and fluttered closed once they were on the path.

 

At the door, Sherlock’s mouth stretched wide into a cheshire cat smile, with no resemblance to the one John had seen grace his face earlier. One arm fell straight down along his side, while the other knocked with command. Presumably, they were on the case. John peered back at the window. Perhaps there was a dead body inside, or markings on the wall in blood, or—

 

A little old lady with advanced osteoporosis and a thick wool jumper the colour of peonies, who opened the door with a confused expression. They were not expected.

 

“Ms Hammersmith,” Sherlock began, “on the evening of February 2nd, between the hours of seven and ten, what do you remember observing through your window?”

 

John’s gaze swung from Sherlock to the supposed Ms Hammersmith.

 

“I’m sorry, who are you? How do you know my name? I don’t just look out my window all night, young man—”

 

“Your name is written on your mail,” with a wave to a single letter peaking out from the letterbox, “and let’s not play games, Ms Hammersmith.” His voice was warm and welcoming, while also brooking no disagreement. He leaned in, acting at once as a co-conspirator with the geriatric woman. “You watch your neighbours like a hawk, don’t you? Ever vigilant, ready for any possible occurrence? And you have a clear line of sight of both the front and back garden door to the house across the street.”

 

Ms Hammersmith peered up the street, and down it, before mirroring Sherlock’s posture, and answering in a whisper, “Why, yes, the Wilsons. But nothing happened on February 2nd in the evening.”

 

Sherlock’s arms shot out like springs, with hands like gadgets clasping onto her shoulders with gentle firmness. “Nothing happened that evening? You’re certain?”

 

Ms Hammersmith pushed both his hands off, but nodded. “Yes.”

 

“No one went in, or out?”

 

“Yes, I’m quite sure.”

 

Nothing happening in the evening didn’t sound very promising to John, but Sherlock crowed in happiness, and spun away from the stoop.

 

“Thank you, Ms Hammersmith, that will be all!” was called back over his shoulder, careless and pleased. John offered a stiff smile and a nod to Ms Hammersmith, before crossing the street after his strange new acquaintance.

 

“Okay. What was that about?” John asked, and judging by the smile Sherlock shot his way, Sherlock had hoped he would.

 

“Confirming a suspicion. You can see from the wear along the outside edges of the curtain that the Wilsons’ neighbour, Ms Hammersmith, spends her time pressed against the window staring out right at both their front and back doors.”

 

“Can you?” John mused, though Sherlock paid him no mind.

 

“The curious incident being that Mr Wilson claimed he left his home at seven, and returned at ten. Ergo, if the ever vigilant Ms Hammersmith didn’t see him, Mr Wilson never left the house.”

 

“Right,” John said. “Sorry, who’s Mr Wilson?”

 

“Our client’s husband,” Sherlock replied, as he strolled right up to the front door Ms Hammersmith had such an excellent view of.

 

John might have questioned Sherlock’s use of “our”, but rather found he liked the sound of it, despite not providing anything to the investigation so far. Perhaps noticing John’s blank expression, Sherlock paused with his knuckles an inch from the door. He rotated towards John, and with a deep breath, explained.

 

“Mrs Wilson contacted me about a precious missing novelty item, which she suspected was stolen by a fellow collector and competitor. The police were unhelpful, apparently, as they deemed the stolen good even pettier than most petty crime. When I asked her when she believed the theft to have taken place, she provided her husband’s hours in and out. Now that I have at least some evidence against that claim—”

 

“You can convince her that Mr Wilson lied to her,” John concluded. “Meaning, they weren’t burglarised by the competitor?”

 

“No,” Sherlock said, eyes boring into John’s, making John feel as if he were meant to be taking far more away from the explanation than he was. “I suspected the culprit was much closer to home and told her so earlier today, but she refused to believe me. I understand people prefer these sorts of accusations with more proof behind them.”

 

“They do, yeah.” John wondered what sorts of trouble Sherlock had gotten into before that had allowed him to learn that lesson, while Sherlock’s hand, suspended in the air for the duration of their conversation, at last hit wood. Once short, and then again, in three sharp raps.

 

John soon discovered that Sherlock had not in fact learned any lesson about how to break information to people, which caused the next six minutes to pass at a quickness that John had not experienced since his time in Afghanistan.

 

First: a balding man with a neck the size of a tree trunk opened the door, and asked who they were.

 

Second: Sherlock duly informed the trunk-necked man that Sherlock had puzzled it all out, and that it had not even been difficult to conclude that Mr Wilson had stolen the novelty Princess Diana pottery figurine (purchased from a reputable antiquer in Coventry in 1999) from his own home. Not for profit, of course, but because Mr Wilson could no longer stand seeing the monstrosity behind the display case in their dining room.

 

“Mrs Wilson would have seen it herself,” Sherlock finished, his eyes slipping onto John meaningfully, “if she hadn’t believed so strongly you shared the same taste in pottery figurines.”

 

Third: Mr Wilson’s arm, which while not as thick as a tree trunk was still nothing to scoff at, swung towards Sherlock.

 

Fourth: John stepped between them, and using Mr Wilson’s outstretched arm as leverage, pulled him forward. With his left foot dragged behind Mr Wilson’s calf, John sent Mr Wilson’s balding head cracking back against the same door that Mr Wilson had not left through the night before.

 

Fifth: Mrs Wilson appeared from the depths of the house to scream bloody murder.

 

Sixth: Sherlock explained the possible locations Mr Wilson might have hid the figurine in their house, where he assumed Mrs Wilson might not be able to find them, after which Mrs Wilson chased them off her property, swinging a novelty cane over her head, which had Margaret Thatcher’s head for a handle.

 

From there, John was hustled into the back of a cab. Sherlock rattled off an address to an establishment called the “Orient Express”, and afterwards said, “Apologies, John. That wasn’t exactly the most exciting of cases, but I did the best I could on such short notice.”

 

John, who was still catching his breath and readjusting to time slowing back down, let out a light, airy sound, rather more like a giggle than a laugh. Short notice. As if it had been John who had demanded that all of that occur. Not to mention—

 

“Right, yeah, darn right boring, that was. Just managed to satisfy my daily quota of punching strangers on their stoops.”

 

Sherlock snorted. In a murmur, “Thank you for that. Your assistance was greatly appreciated.”

 

John ducked his head, pleased. “That’s why you brought me, wasn’t it? To help.”

 

Sherlock hummed. His gaze had slipped from John to his own hands clasped in his lap, fingers worming against one another in the tight hold.

 

John wondered if he was nervous. John wondered if this was a date.

 

“What’s an exciting one like, then?” John asked, in the hopes of drawing Sherlock’s attention back to him. “A few more dead toes than that?”

 

The grin that snuck across Sherlock’s face gave John the impression he was doing rather well. “Yes,” Sherlock replied, looking at John out of the corner of his eye, “typically, ten more.”

 

They shared a smile, which was soon rudely interrupted by their arrival at the Orient Express. A chinese restaurant, which, in John’s view, was nice enough to border the perilous edge of date venue territory.

 

A silence fell between them that John found comfortable rather than awkward, and gave him a moment’s leave to muse over how strange it was to be in a restaurant with someone who had asked if he wanted to finger a man’s anus. John couldn’t quite imagine the man sitting across from him, with his stiff, upturned coat collar and styled hair, to discuss those topics. The knowledge that he had, and what he wanted, was, in a word, distracting.

 

When the waiter came to take their order, both of them were delayed in responding. Sherlock arguably didn’t respond at all, and instead flapped his hand towards John, who was forced to order for both of them. Which did nothing to disprove the possible date theory.

 

Being invited on a case was ambiguous, and being invited to dinner was only slightly less so. Sherlock glaring at the waitress making moon eyes at John while she poured his water was, however, promising. Very promising.

 

John contemplated asking if Sherlock came there often, before he was saved by the food arriving. Starving, John tucked in, while Sherlock began a painstaking arrangement with his food. With a single chopstick, Sherlock pushed each individual dumpling away from the stir fry noodles till none were touching.

 

“So. What did you think? About the case?” Sherlock asked at last, his eyes still fixed on his plate.

What had John thought of the case? He had been much more intrigued by Sherlock, in truth, than the bizarre domestic situation they had inserted themselves into.

 

“I suppose it’s good that Mrs Wilson is going to get her Princess Di back,” he replied, after swallowing a bit of low mein. “Though I might sympathise with Mr Wilson for hiding it, had I actually seen it.”

 

Sherlock chuckled at that, a soft, deep sound, which John hoped to hear more of. “Quite right,” he said, with a lift of his eyebrows, but not his eyes. His chopstick tapped the top of a dumpling, before pushing through its thin, perspiring skin.

 

“I am surprised it interested you,” John said, voicing what had struck him as odd about the entire drama. “You went all the way to their house, even though you already knew the husband had done it. How did you know, by the way?”

 

Sherlock waved his chopstick in the air, dismissive. “Simple. He was the only one with true motive and ample opportunity. Spouses are always prime suspects, and for good reason. Especially in this case, when their tastes were clearly ill-suited for one another.”

 

At that, Sherlock finally raised his gaze, and stared right at John. Pointed, observing his reaction. John’s own dumpling stopped half-way towards his mouth.

 

Right. Emphasis placed on romantic partners being ill-suited for one another.

 

Not promising.

 

John cleared his throat. “That’s a rather disparaging view of relationships,” he recovered, making a show of blowing on his dumpling to cool it.  

 

“Is it?” Sherlock continued to toy with his food, pushing a single noodle to and fro on his plate. “You don’t think Mrs Wilson would be better off without someone who has no appreciation for her pottery figurines?”

 

“Well, yes, I suppose she’d be better off,” John replied, eyes narrowing. He was well and truly lost. Had Sherlock intended that remark about partners as a put off? If so, it had worked. What was John supposed to make of this entire encounter?

 

No answers were forthcoming. Sherlock simply replied, “Good,” before launching into a description of a previous case, insisting his other cases had much more dangerous elements than balding middle-aged men, which then switched into a violinist Sherlock had seen perform recently. If John had any hope of escaping their meeting with his crush contained, Sherlock’s rapid unveiling of his personal interests did nothing to curb it. He was mad, charming, and excessively endearing. John ate his food in the comfort of Sherlock carrying the conversation to and fro, like the malleable noodle on his plate, reacting at all the right junctures.

 

After dinner, Sherlock hailed a cab, insisting they were going the same way, and that the cab would drop John off first. John had never been on the receiving end of this treatment, though he had acted this way with his own dates in the past.

 

With signals that mixed, John returned to his bedsit more confused than on his first day of med school. Opening his laptop, John typed into the search bar, “How to tell if someone’s been flirting with you for a week. Also, how to tell if someone just took you on a date. Except for the part where they don’t think romantic partners are good for people.”

 

John didn’t press enter. Instead, he navigated to his blog, and hit “New Post.”

 

With a hum, he began: _A strange meeting_.  

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping to stick to this two week sched, hopefully see you then!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to Bruna & Robin for deleting all my commas, and to Fae, who screamed "Whom" all over the doc.

John described their first meeting in the same way he might dip a single toe into bubble-surfaced bathwater. He wasn’t daring enough to step in all the way just yet, not till he knew how warm his welcome would be. The blog post was complimentary enough to hint at his interest, while ambiguous enough to get away with it. John thought he knew when he was flirting with someone, but Sherlock wasn’t like other someones. Besides, it was possible that after meeting him, Sherlock was only interested in friendship, or a doctor to assist in his work. Or, rather, muscle to help out on cases, given the assistance John had provided.

 

John reasoned that Sherlock was aware of his blog—in fact, it was the first thing Sherlock had ever seen of him—ergo, if Sherlock was interested, he would read said blog to check if John had written about him. It’s what John would have done, as evidenced by his somewhat alarming habit of refreshing Sherlock’s blog webpage every twenty minutes.

 

His regret was almost immediate. Within an hour of posting the blog entry, detailing his meeting with Sherlock but leaving any explanation of how they met markedly absent, John’s phone was ringing off the hook. Or, rather, vibrating off the table. His sister had texted him no less than eight times, her questions varying from had John gone gay, had John broken up with his girlfriend yet, and how had John managed to meet the mysterious stranger.

 

 _I know for sure I didn’t tell you about having a girlfriend_ , was John’s first response, to which Harry replied, _She left a flirty comment on your post!!!! LOL!!_

 

John couldn’t decide which was more cringe-worthy; his sister’s general existence, or the reply from his former semi-girlfriend on the post, which suggested that they grab a bite at the Orient Express sometime (topped off, of course, with a winking face and many kisses). Christ.

 

It was no hardship ignoring the rest of Harry’s texts, nor was it difficult avoiding the comments section on his blog, where Harry and Bill Murray were mouthing off. John ignored them; they weren’t the target audience of the post. John just had to wait for Sherlock to read it, and hopefully ignore the other comments. Then, Sherlock would surely not be able to resist commenting on a post entirely about him, or send a chat message teasing John.

 

Four days passed before John’s blog received any such recognition.

 

+

 

**February 5th**

> No questions today?

> Hello, Sherlock?

 

**February 7th**

> _Besides “How to massage a prostate”, what other guide topics would interest you?_

> Hi, hello.

> _Hello. Now that we’ve greeted each other, may we move on?_

> All right. OK, new guide topics, then. I thought you didn’t write guides? You said the other one was just a one-off.

> _I’m expanding my horizons._

> Oh, then you must have a topic in mind?

> _How to massage a sensitive scalp without tugging._

> _Alternatively, "How to insert and remove anal beads"._

>  OK. Wow. Off to the races, you are.

> _You asked. Do you have any better ideas?_

> It wasn’t a criticism.

> _Then, which do you prefer?_

> I hate to play favourites, but how DO you massage a sensitive scalp without tugging?

> _You have to take care to not pull against the grain of the hair._

> Like petting a cat?

> _Perhaps. I don’t have much experience with cats._

> A dog person?

> _Yes._

> Do you have one? A dog, I mean?

_ > No. _

> But you used to?

> _Yes._

> And the one word answers come out.

> _You’re asking me yes or no questions._

> Well, all the same, sorry about your dog.

> _Thank you, John._

> I’m just saying, you’re not as talkative as you usually are. In fact, you’ve been a bit silent since we met up.

> _Being untalkative is not unusual for me_ . _Sometimes I don’t say anything for weeks at a time._

> Not in my experience with you. You talk quite a lot, actually. Not that that’s a bad thing.

> Sherlock?

> And he’s gone again.

 

**February 8th**

> So, you saw my blog post?

> _I believe that goes without saying, seeing as I posted a comment on it._

> Yeah, I’m reading that. “I’m only seeing this blog post now. This is a somewhat over romanticised recreation of the events, John. For one thing, I don’t remember Mrs Wilson swinging Margaret Thatcher souvenirs around her head like a helicopter, but far be it for me to influence your retelling.”

> But the cane DID have Margaret Thatcher’s face for a handle. How could I possibly make that up?

> _True, you do lack the imagination._

> Oi.

> _Only stating the truth. And,_ _yes, I stumbled across your blog in my browser history, and checked in. There’s no need to copy and paste my response here, as I’ve read it already, given that I wrote it._

 _ > _ All right, take it easy.

_ > If you do ever decide to take your girlfriend up on her offer, I recommend avoiding the orange duck. _

> What?

> _Commenter “stammy79” wanted to “grab a bite” with you sometime, xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo._

> Just 'cause it’s suggested to me doesn’t mean I’m taking anyone to the Orient Express. Unless you wanted to go again?

> _No._

> Okay. Then no one needs to avoid the orange duck. What’s wrong with their orange duck?

> _It isn’t duck._

> Funny. If I was my sister, I might’ve just written lol.

> _Thank you for restraining yourself._

> Was that why you were mad at me? You saw my blog post and didn’t like it?

> _When was I mad at you?_

> You gave me the cold shoulder after we met up.

> _Like I said, I only just saw the blog post now._

> Right. Of course. Have you made any more progress on the scalp rubbing?

> _It’s a work in progress._

> And how’s it going?

> _Progress hit a rough patch, but now has turned up. I may finish soon._

> I look forward to it ;-)

> _Sarcastic?_

> Shit, no, that was genuine. Sorry. :-). There.

> _:)_

> Where’s the nose?

> _I’m being different._

> Of course you are. Well, good luck with your guide work. Good night.

> _Thank you. Good night._

 

**February 9th**

> I see you’re online. Should I be waiting for my daily question?

> _I don’t have a question as of yet. I’m in the process of writing the guide._

> Care to share some of it?

> _I could. But it’s not done._

> But I’m your number one fan ;-)

> _For my number one fan, I suppose I must make allowances._

> _First rule: Use nails, lightly._ _Second rule: Do NOT run fingers through hair._

_ > Further instructions: Before touching scalp area, apply light pressure at the base of the neck. Stroke up to the hairline, and repeat. If there is tension found in the neck, add a circling motion to the upward stroke. Allow their head to tilt forward or back as needed. With fingers spread and pointing upwards, apply pressure as if lathering shampoo at neck hairline. Shift hands slightly higher, and continue lathering motion. Repeat five or six times. Once the back of the head has been sufficiently covered, move fingers to their forehead near temples. Slide fingers upwards into hairline. Sink fingers into curls. Hold in place. Rub in small circles, using nails. Decrease pressure till fingers no longer touch scalp. Repeat four to five times. _

> Use nails. Start at the back, and work your way towards to front. Got it.

> _A summary that misses all the important details, but yes._

> Sink fingers into “curls”? I thought this was for sensitive scalps.

> _Curly-haired people have sensitive scalps._

> :-) I think I know whose scalp this is referring to.

_ > Are you implying this is “personal” again? _

> I might be, but as I’ve said, I like that. Besides, I’m not sure you can avoid it.

> _How so?_

> You’re describing how you like getting your head rubbed.

> _I was under the impression that many people enjoyed head rubs._

> They do, but maybe not specifically with a shampooing motion repeated 7.5 times.

> _There’s nothing wrong with being exact._

> Never said there was. Nothing wrong with it at all.

> _And you’re teasing me again._

> :-P

> _Good God, what is that?_

> Me sticking my tongue out at you.  

> _Hmm. It’s true, you did do that._

 _ > _Oi. Now who’s teasing who?

> _;-)_

> A winking face, from Sherlock Holmes! As I live and breathe!

> _Shut up, John. ;)_

 

**February 10th**

> Updates?

> _Eager, are we?_

> You could say that :-)

_ > I’m creating step-by-step instructions now. I’m trying to make the scalp guide more generalisable, to mixed success. Do you have preferences? _

> For head rubs? You can rub my head any which way, I don’t think I’d mind. Especially when it’s still cut short.

> _Not helpful._

> Good thing you don’t need my help, then.

> _Oh, don’t be like that._

> I meant it in a nice way. As in, I mean, you’ve already demonstrated you know how to write in things outside your own preferences. Given, you know, the other guide.

> _Interesting. What part of the other guide did you think was not to my own preferences?_

> Well. I was just thinking.

> _It’s cute when you do that._

> Piss off. As I was saying, I was just thinking that not everything in the other guide was. Well, you know. Your cup of tea.

> _If you want to be picturesque about it. John, be more specific._

> I mean how you suggested the partner be warmed up.

> _Ah. You mean the spanking._

> Yeah.

_ > Even a little tap can help blood flow into the area, John. _

> I, yeah, I know that.

> _Am I making you uncomfortable?_

> No, not at all. I guess that answers my question.

> _You didn’t ask one._

> Er, right. Yep. Let me rephrase, that disproves my assumption.

> Let’s change the topic.

> _To what?_

> Any more cases on the horizon?

> _Not at present, no. The criminals are unimaginative as of late._

> How awful of them. Not even another novelty pottery figurine mishap? I’d settle for a train collection this time. A coin collection, even. Stamp collection?

> _I’m afraid not, no collections of any kind. If there were, however, would you be interested in coming with me again?_

> Yes. Absolutely. :-)

> _Noted. :)_

 

**February 11th**

> _Still interested in my casework?_

> My interest hasn’t waned since yesterday. I take it the criminal classes have changed their minds about boring you?

> _Might have. Is that a yes?_

> It’s a “yes, absolutely”.

> _Good. Meet me at the Hunterian Museum in fifteen minutes._

> I’m taking the tube, I can’t possibly get there that fast.

> _Fine. Twenty-five minutes, but leave now._

> What if I had been in the middle of something?

> _John._

> Fine, see you in twenty. If I walk fast enough.

> _Yes, yes, fine, just hurry!_

 

**February 12th**

> Did you make it home all right?

> _Yes, John. Nothing untoward happened between the cab dropping you off at your flat and the cab dropping me off at mine._

 _ > _You never know, it was 4 AM. The cabbie could have abducted you.

> _That’s ridiculous._

 _ > _More or less ridiculous than solving the Case of the Disappearing Foetuses?

_ > Good God, why are there capitals? _

> That’s what I’d call it. If I were to write it up.

> _Why would you write it up?_

> You figured all that out, and had everything back to the museum within one night, Sherlock! It was incredible.

> _You think so?_

> Yes, without a doubt. Incredible.

> _You weren’t too bad yourself. That tackle was quite impressive._

> Anything for the return of medical oddities.

> _Quite._

> Well, I’m still exhausted. Don’t suppose you’re still working on that guide?

> _I got a bit side-tracked, but I’ll pick it up again in no time._

> Best of luck :-)

 

**February 13th**

> _This guide is RUINED!!!_

> Need help, drama queen?

> _Not sure how you could._

> How is the guide ruined, Sherlock?

> _I may have forgotten to consider that external touch is experienced differently than touching oneself._

> Oh. That’s true.

> _I know it’s true. That’s the problem._

> It’s not THAT different, Sherlock. Surely nothing’s ruined.

> _It was a major oversight on my part. It’s all wrong now._

> Well, if you need someone who isn’t you. For external sensory input, as it were.

> _Do go on._

> Then I’m your man.

> _Are you?_

> Just said I was. And I happen to be entirely free tomorrow afternoon.

> _How convenient._

_ > The address is 221B Baker Street. _

> See you soon, then? I mean, tomorrow.

> _Yes, if you’d like. See you soon_.

 

+

 

John walked through the opened living room door of 221B for the first time with a pack of biscuits in each hand. When Sherlock’s eyes lighted on John’s haul, his expression seemed unable to settle on surprise or bemusement.

 

“I brought two kinds,” John started. “The plain ones, in case you were serious, and the chocolate-sided ones, in case I was right.” John demonstrated which biscuit pack he was referring to by lifting them with his arms respectively, his torso like a tipping scale.  

 

Sherlock, sitting in a worn down grey leather armchair, crossed his legs and steepled his fingers, the latter only just managing to conceal his growing smile.

 

“Why do I get the feeling that I will be judged based on my choice?”

 

“Because you will be. Very harshly judged. Just take the chocolate ones,” John said with a wink. “Show me you’re human.”

 

“This just in: John Watson thinks eating plain biscuits is inhuman.” But, all the same, Sherlock unfolded himself from the chair, snatched the chocolate ones from John’s loose grip, and walked into the kitchen. John followed after, and leaned against the glass door to the narrow kitchen to watch as Sherlock began tea preparations.

 

“Do you happen to know what day it is?” John asked. He’d been a bit curious if there was any significance to being invited over on international day of feeling like shit if you were single, and feeling pressured to be romantic if you were not. Maybe it had been intended as a sign…?

 

Sherlock hummed. “The 13th?”

 

“Nevermind.” There went that, then. “I ran into your landlady on the way up,” John continued, attempting to make conversation.

 

“Oh?” Sherlock was rather intent on positioning tea cups in their saucers, turning one handle out to the right, and the other twisted to the left. John had a feeling he knew whose cup was whose. That Sherlock had noticed John was left-handed wasn’t in itself surprising, given Sherlock’s career, but there was an intense kind of conscientious about the cups, painstaking in its detail. John imagined Sherlock applied these rigorous and exacting standards to everything he did, which was the kind of thought that could make a man gulp.

 

“Yes,” John said, clearing his throat. “She seemed ecstatic to see me. I’ve never been so warmly welcomed by someone whom I’ve never met before.” The self-identified Mrs Hudson had in fact almost hugged him. John wasn’t accustomed to people touching him much these days, but the way she’d beamed at him, as if he were a long lost son, while in part disconcerting, had mostly been nice.

 

Sherlock muttered something unintelligible beneath his breath. Louder, “Ignore her.”

 

“Did you tell her you were expecting me?” John must have been truly gone on Sherlock, because even that seemed charming, in its way.

 

“Ah!” Sherlock cried as the kettle boiled, ignoring John, and rushing to pour the water into the pot. Once he was finished, he loaded up the tray, and turned back to John with a smile.

 

“Living room? Feel free to take a seat in the armchair with the plaid throw.”

  
John did as was suggested, enjoying himself immensely. Sherlock was fussy and had told his landlady John was coming over. Not the actions of someone who didn’t want a relationship, after all. Not so promising became quite promising once more.

 

Sherlock poured him a cup, and John got comfortable. Across, Sherlock sipped, and nibbled on a chocolate biscuit. John eyed the chocolate coating with a lift of his brows.

 

Sherlock’s “Shut up,” was delivered with a munch. Crumbs sprinkled down, dusting the lapels of his suit jacket. The idea of reaching out, and brushing them off, did cross John’s mind, but Sherlock beat him to it.

 

“So,” John said, nestling his cup back into the ridge of its saucer with a clang. “The guide.”

 

“Yes, the guide.” Mirroring him, Sherlock lowered his cup.

 

John waited for Sherlock to continue. He did not.

 

“Should we—” John motioned to the sofa ”—sit, so I can… help?”

 

“Yes, right. Helping! Of course.” Sherlock clapped his hands together, and sprung across the room. With skinny, black dress shoes, Sherlock lumbered over his coffee table, and sat on the right side of the sofa, closest to the living room door. It was prim, and proper, as if he were actively thinking about how one sat on a sofa.

 

Without climbing over the table, John joined him, sitting in the remaining space available to the left. Sherlock remained silent.

 

“Would it be easiest if you faced away for the start, or—?”

 

“Right.” Sherlock drew his left leg up, and twisted himself around. He hunched his back and allowed his head to fall forward.

 

John swallowed. Had he studied the excerpt well enough? Nails, lightly. No running fingers through the hair. Start at the back, move his way to the front. John reached out, and first placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, as if he needed a part of him to grip onto. Sherlock jerked under his touch, and then settled. Based on that reaction, John was slow to place his thumbs along Sherlock’s neck, where they slid up until reaching a curl at Sherlock’s nape.

 

John repeated the motion. Sherlock sighed.

 

Glad he hadn’t cut his nails too short on his last trim, John sunk his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. Gentle, he massaged. Sherlock’s head tipped forward. The slope of his shoulders slackened. John felt for the root of the hair, the soft scalp underneath all that volume, which seemed to be helped by quite a lot of product. Not that John could judge.

 

John’s fingers retreated, careful to not “run” through the hair, and sunk back in a different place. He was meant to repeat five to six times, and so he did. On the fourth try, Sherlock rumbled, “You can scratch harder than that,” but otherwise allowed himself to be touched in silence. Promising, considering Sherlock seemed the type to boss him about, had he been doing it wrong.

 

“Is it different?” John asked, on his sixth rinse and repeat rotation.

 

“What?” Sherlock’s chin must have been against his chest, his head had dropped so far. His voice was softened, almost groggy.

 

“The external stimulus,” John prompted, nails continuing to skim across hidden skin. “Being massaged by someone else.”

 

Mumbled, “Yes. Exceptionally.”

 

John slipped his fingers free, having covered the back of Sherlock’s head. It was time to start at the temples now, which were difficult to reach in their current positions. John tapped Sherlock’s dropped shoulder.

 

“Do you mind turning back around? For the temples bit?”

 

John almost expected an annoyed response. _Of course, John, I’m well aware you’ve just completed the sixth repetition, I’m familiar with my own guide_.

 

Instead, Sherlock was not only quiet, but slow to move. When he did, his torso twisted towards John first, with his legs still facing the door. The contortion could not have been comfortable.

 

“This isn’t yoga class,” John said, smiling. Somehow, everything Sherlock did was endearing. “Get comfortable. Turn around.”

 

Sherlock grimaced, but the legs did come. Sherlock’s left leg spun out with the motion, crossing over his right thigh once he had settled.

 

“All right,” John murmured. Perhaps Sherlock was nervous? Or maybe he just sat like that? “Starting with the temples.”

 

His fingers landed at the edges of Sherlock’s wispy eyebrows. John rubbed into the temples; it hadn’t been mentioned, but he still figured it would be appreciated. And then, his fingers drifted upwards, his right hand ducking beneath the fringe created by Sherlock’s deep side-part, till they skirted the edges of his hairline. Using nails, lightly, John moved his fingers in circles.

 

Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his face as slack as his shoulders. Without those eyes on him, John leaned forward, allowing his arms to bend at the elbow, relaxing his own posture. When his leg brushed Sherlock’s drawn up knee, John’s eyes ducked down, landing without thought on Sherlock’s upper thighs, and lap.

 

Sherlock was hard.

 

John did a double-take, of course—who wouldn’t?—but the fabric of his tailored trousers did not leave much room for error. John’s gaze darted back and forth between Sherlock’s face, eyes still closed, and the apparent reason Sherlock had been reluctant to turn around.

 

The polite thing would be to not comment on it. But John was not a polite man, and that course of action didn’t quite align with John’s interests. Decided, John went all in.

 

“Um, Sherlock?” He cleared his throat. His voice had warbled. God, what was he about to do?

 

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, his eyelids lifting, sluggish and dazed. John hadn’t stopped rubbing his scalp, despite his observation and ensuing dilemma.  

 

“Does starting at the back and moving to the front apply here as well?” John asked, chin dipping down toward Sherlock’s lap.

 

Sherlock froze. When he could move again, Sherlock looked as if he couldn’t decide if he were more embarrassed for himself, or for John and that comment. John still hadn’t stopped rubbing his face.

 

“Or we could pretend I didn’t just say that.”

 

“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped, cheeks as red as Christmas. “You don’t have to start there at all.”

 

“Right.” Well-versed in escape strategies, John’s eyes skidded to the opened door.

 

“But if you were going to start,” Sherlock continued, eyes shutting tight, “you would obviously start at the front.”

 

“Right,” John repeated, with much more cheerfulness. “Sorry, that. Wasn’t my smoothest proposition.”

 

“John.” Crow’s feet formed in the corners of Sherlock’s eyes from how hard he had them shut. “Please.”

 

Before John could even contemplate following through with his heavy-handed offer, Sherlock’s own heavy hand was pulling John’s down towards his lap. And just like that, John went from rubbing a man’s scalp without tugging to rubbing a man off through his clothes. While said man buried his face in the shoulder of his suit jacket, breathing heavily through his nose.

 

John moved his hand, praying away a hand tremor, and the sinking feeling in his gut that was too much like disappointment. That had no business being there.

 

Sherlock’s eyes were shuttered and his mouth was wide open. Sighs, gasps, and one single, shy moan, left through those parted lips, as quick as a peck on the cheek, and John wanted to kiss him, even more than he wanted to stroke the outline of Sherlock’s erection through the hedonistic thread-count trouser fabric.

 

John reduced his pressure, until his fingers no longer touched. Hovering, uncertain, above.

 

“I can’t do this,” John said, and the crease in Sherlock’s brows, the immediate and evident devastation on Sherlock’s closed-off face, was incontrovertible proof that it had been the wrong thing to say.

 

“I mean, I don’t want it to be like this,” John clarified, which did nothing to help.

 

Sherlock’s eyes, when they opened, were mere slits, and his words, when spoken, were barked. “Like what?”

 

“I want,” John said. “I want—” He crept in, bending from the waist, neck extending, and slow as a courtship, kissed Sherlock on the mouth. Sherlock was still beneath his lips. As slow as he had come, John slipped back to find Sherlock’s wide eyes, unseeing. Then, a blink.

 

“You. Your. What about your girlfriend?” Sherlock stuttered, and for a full thirty seconds, John had no idea who Sherlock could even be referring to.

 

In John’s silence, Sherlock prompted, “John, your girlfriend? Or is kissing others allowed within the bounds of your arrangement?”

 

“What? Oh my God,” John gasped, understanding dawning, “I broke it off. God, Sherlock, I broke it off.”

 

“When?” Sherlock demanded, eyes searching John’s entire person, as if he could deduce it from one of John’s loose cardigan buttons.

 

“The day after I first started messaging you.” It had been a quick phone call; she hadn’t even really seemed to mind.

 

Sherlock blinked, a mere flutter of eyelashes.

 

“That was before you had seen me.”

 

“I had a good feeling,” John said, leaning in, as if sharing a secret, and Sherlock laughed.

 

“You,” Sherlock said, accusingly, with eyes narrowed. “You, John Watson, are truly unbelieveable.”

 

“Oh, am I?” John confirmed it by sneaking another kiss. Sherlock kissed back with soft pressure, unsure, but welcome.

 

“I just didn’t want that arrangement,” John thought to clarify.

 

“Oh? And what do you want, then?” Sherlock’s hands were folded in his lap, concealing himself, as if now embarrassed. That, more than any gesture, made John’s heart swell.

 

“Gentle words,” John said, “and quiet affection.”

 

When Sherlock smiled, it was a small, sly thing. “Me too,” he replied, and that made John laugh, though in self-deprecation.

 

“Yeah, I guess I knew that already.”

 

“I did tell you.”

 

“The relationship was over before you. Just to be clear.”

 

“Really.”

 

“And I want to be serious with you now. You know. Romantic.”

 

“I understand, John. It’s clear from your blog that you’re a romantic. A hopeless one at that.”

 

John spluttered. “What was all that shit then, after that case? With the Wilsons?”

 

Sherlock flushed up. Twiddling his thumbs, “You have to understand. At the time, I thought you were still with your girlfriend.”

 

“Compatibility.” A light bulb above John’s head lit up with a ping. “You were telling me you didn’t think I was compatible with my girlfriend.”

 

Sherlock gave a short nod.

 

“You couldn’t have just said so?”

 

“I understand it’s considered… too direct to suggest someone you are interested in break up with their partner. I wanted to plant the idea that, perhaps, you and your girlfriend weren’t interested in the same things.”

 

“And that you and I are?” John motioned between the two of them.

 

“Well. Aren’t we?” One single brow was arched, and Sherlock appeared more confident than earlier in their conversation. “I am interested in… both directions you have moved in this evening. Wouldn’t you say that suggests compatibility?”

 

John translated this Sherlock-speak into “I’m interested in the sexual and romantic nature of the proceedings,” and felt it was time for a change in location.

 

“And where,” John said, looking towards the kitchen, where he had seen a promising hallway beyond, “might we, uh, explore that possible compatibility?”

 

+

 

The transition from conversation on the sofa to Sherlock’s bedroom was a strange one. Sherlock held John’s hand as he led him down the hall, which was as sweet as it was oddly chaste. John’s hand was dropped once they were behind the closed door, where Sherlock began to inform John of the “particulars” that he should be aware of, including the different lubes available in the side drawer, Sherlock’s clean bill of health from a recent doctor’s appointment, which John assumed explained the lack of condoms, and that Sherlock was “clean” in other areas, at which point John kissed him if only to avoid learning more than absolutely necessary.  

 

What John did want to know was whether this was moving too fast, which Sherlock answered by stripping, and which John supposed was answer enough. Sherlock’s clothes were disposed of in an orderly fashion, the suit jacket and dress shirt hung up with care, his trousers folded neatly, and a foot placed on the chair to unlace his shoes, all performed with his back to John. John attempted to catch up, though didn’t offer his own clothes anywhere near the same care as he shrugged out of them and discarded them onto Sherlock’s bedroom floor.

 

Once nude, Sherlock stood facing the corner of the room. With his back straight, to say nothing of his bare arse and a lifetime of legs on display, John’s earlier suspicion grew into conviction: Sherlock was nervous. That didn’t quite fit with the sex guide writer image, but perhaps this was simply another quirk of Sherlock’s personality, like not enjoying noodles when they touched his wontons.

 

Imitating the beginning of his earlier neck massage, John laid one hand on his shoulder, and allowed his fingers to drift up the slope towards his neck. A soft noise, and Sherlock was turning on the spot, smooth like pirouette. Sherlock ducked down with only his neck, like a smooth-skinned giraffe stretching out to nuzzle against his cheek. The strangeness of their disrobing was forgotten with the first touch of bare skin, with a wiry arm slipping around his torso, with one big hand cupping his jaw, and with kisses soft across his mouth, hard across his cheek, and a bit wet on his nose. It was easy to lay back onto the bed together, second nature to stroke down Sherlock’s sides, and inescapable to whisper into Sherlock’s flushed ear.

A single “Ready?” and Sherlock flipped onto his stomach in one smooth, unquestioning motion. John was left with a view of Sherlock’s back and five different kinds of edible lube, which John had to assume was a subtle suggestion.

 

Massage was the theme of the evening, and now didn’t seem the time to break that pattern. John slid his hands down the small of Sherlock’s back, easing tension away along the spine, till he dipped lower.

 

“You never told me,” John said, his voice unrecognisable to himself. “You never told me which you preferred. For warm-up.”

 

Muffled, “Any of the options listed would be satisfactory.”

 

Fingers spread wide, John settled for stroking over his backside in slow, small circles. His thumbs skirted outward, dipping down into the crease, and without yet taking a peek, warmed the sensitive skin. With his right hand, John reached under. _Rubbing the perineum to approach the prostate from another angle_ , his mind supplied, and the shiver that ran through Sherlock’s frame made John feel as if they had shared the same thought.

 

Sherlock’s hips were shifting in a gentle grind against his own mattress; his breaths were fast, visible in the rise and fall of his sharp shoulder blades, his forearms tucked up underneath his chest. Not sure if they were familiar enough for John to dare anything further from the guide, John reached for the handy supply of lubricant, and like Sherlock’s skin, heated that as well as he could.

 

First: one finger, circling. Second: Sherlock’s body, frozen, unyielding. Third: panic.

 

How was John meant to press in past that resistant muscle without it being uncomfortable, without saying with clinical efficiency, _“bear down”,_ without ruining the moment? But then: a whimper, and the tip of his index finger slipped inside.

 

He was in. And out again, and in, and out. Shallow, as the guide had directed. _Focus on fingering, which can stimulate the prostate indirectly_. With the additional advantage of each slide working Sherlock further open, and John’s right hand rubbing his perineum, no pillow could hold back those sounds. As vocal as the guide claimed the receiving partner might be, there were moans, and garbled words, and outright cries, and John hated that Sherlock was flipped down. John wanted to see his face, especially when he ventured from indirect to direct contact.  

 

Light pressure, only grazing, and Sherlock was gasping, each stuttering breath muffled into a pillow, and just like that, John was speaking utter nonsense. God awful, loving nonsense, that should have been mortifying for a first time with a new, if-he-played-his-cards-right boyfriend.

 

“You’re perfect,” John whispered, regardless. “God, you’re so good.” To dispel the tension, and to make fun of his ridiculous words, John teased, “No wonder you’re a sex guru.”

 

And Sherlock winced. Not a shudder, not a shiver. A definite wince.

 

John stopped and withdrew his finger. Crouching on his heels, hands soaked with lubricant, John forced down another wave of panic.

 

“Shit, did I hurt you?”

 

Sherlock was shaking his head, and lifted himself up onto his elbows. The slope of his shoulders appeared resigned. When Sherlock’s chin drifted over his shoulder, turning towards John, his face wasn’t dry, and John had to remind himself to breathe.

 

“Oh my God,” John gasped, reaching towards him with his lubed hand, before thinking better of it. “I hurt you. Oh God, I—”

 

“John, no, I’m not hurt. I didn’t seize up because of that.” Sherlock wiped at his face, but all John could see were tear tracks. “John, listen to me: I’m not actually. A sex guru.”

 

“Okay, sorry.” John sighed, somewhat relieved. “Sex guide extraordinaire.”

 

“No, John—” spoken in anguish, and John couldn’t fathom why “—you’re not listening. I have tried to tell you. I want you to remember that despite never saying otherwise, I have never lied about this, only not stated it outright—” Sherlock exhaled in one loud gush of air. “I don’t do this.”

 

“What, sleep with men you met off the internet?” John laughed. “Me neither. Well, this is my first time with a man.”

 

“No, I mean—” Sherlock’s face screwed up, the kind of expression that made John to warn him that his face might stay that way if he kept it up. “It’s mine too.”

 

John blinked. Sherlock fell back onto the bed, an arm thrown over his face. The rest of his explanation was mumbled into the crook of his elbow.

 

“I experimented, extensively, on myself. I knew what I liked and what I had missed. I’ve never—”

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” John interjected, and the way he said his name sounded an awful lot like “love”, despite it being ages too soon to be that smitten. John, as Sherlock had pointed out, was unbelievable.

 

The truth made far more sense than his assumption; all the pieces that hadn’t fit with the image of Sherlock building in John’s mind had been tossed away with this revelation, and everything else left behind slotted together. What Sherlock had missed was as obvious as what he had liked.

 

John peeled the strewn arm back from Sherlock’s face, and kissed the mouth beneath it, a no-nonsense press of lips.

 

“Thank you. For telling me that.”

 

“You’re not disappointed?” asked with a barely-there trembling in the lower lip.

 

“No, Sherlock. I’m wondering if I should have brought rose petals to scatter on the bed, but other than that, there’s no problem.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he was smiling again soon enough after.

 

“It’s embarrassing,” John said, “but I’m sort of wild about you.”

 

“Really?” The deepness of Sherlock’s voice was a wonder.

 

“I have a secret.” John snuck a kiss to his ear lobe. “I still think you’re a sex guru.”

 

Sherlock laughed. With his hand returning to stroke John’s hip, “I could be, if we got on with it.”

 

“Right,” John said, as the weight of Sherlock’s confession sunk in. “I feel like I should have, I don’t know, taken you out for dinner first.”

 

Sherlock sighed the way people did in cartoons: jaw dropping, chest expanding, eyes rolling.

 

“By your own admission, it’s your first time with a man as well. Would that not go both ways? While I have technically bought you dinner, it was over a week ago. Is there an expiry period after the purchase of the dinner? Besides, today you brought me two packs of biscuits, though I suppose that makes me a cheap date.”

 

Sherlock’s musings on the subject ended around the time John began to laugh without breath and without pause. The furrow that formed between Sherlock’s brows made John laugh even harder, even while he attempted to get himself back under control. There were cocks out, Sherlock’s arse lubed, and John couldn’t stop giggling into Sherlock’s left pillow.

 

“You don’t have to convince me,” John gasped. He lifted himself up onto his elbow and started kissing Sherlock again—wet, and open, and not always square on the mouth—till they were back on track.

 

In the face of Sherlock’s complete and utter certainty, John grew bolder. His senses faded to simply touch; his blunt nose drifted across Sherlock’s clavicle, his lips pursed in nigh on constant kisses, and his hands reapplied their lubricant to ease the way. This time, John gripped Sherlock by the hips, and flipped him over himself. The ensuing gasp, pressed into the sheets, was encouragement enough. This time, John was brave enough to administer a tap to one cheek, and then, to the other. Each hit was soft and playful, not intended to hurt. Beneath the skin, blood rushed up to meet him, and Sherlock sighed into the bed.

 

What else was on that list? Oh, right.

 

John’s thumbs returned to their earlier placement, pulling back to reveal where John had liberally rubbed earlier. Nosing his way down the side of one cheek, John ducked down to lick a stripe over slicked skin. A groan and buck of Sherlock’s hips, and John nearly got knocked off track. At the loss of contact, Sherlock pressed backward, and John got the hint. There was another moan after a second lick up the middle, and a sound not easily characterised after his tongue pressed against the loosened muscle till just the tip dipped in.

 

But, the word of the day was “massage”, and as quickly as it had come, John’s tongue was replaced by his finger. This time, there was no cause for concern about his bedside manner slipping out, as one finger slipped in with no resistance, with a second following shortly after. God, Sherlock was wet. John imagined if he reached around to the front, he would find his cock in a similar state as well, staining the pristine sheets beneath them, and Christ, as his fingers eased in and crooked, John found with little surprise that he had never been more turned on in his life. And, from the sounds of it, neither had Sherlock.

 

John pressed, as lightly and as gently as he had been instructed, barely a graze, but insistent. He never allowed Sherlock a moment to catch his breath as he stimulate his prostate as methodically as instructed. The panting into the sheets was the best performance review John had ever received; John’s own air intake was thunderous in his ears, heavily breathing through his nose as he licked at the rim around his finger, which seemed to only draw him deeper into Sherlock’s body. Sherlock’s hips couldn’t seem to decide whether they wanted to press back into the finger or hump against the bed, and John couldn’t decide if he should ever stop, until Sherlock eventually found the strength to speak.

 

“John,” Sherlock said, and his voice was wrecked in a way that John could only take as the highest of compliments. “John, as much as I appreciate your dedication to my online literature—“ a cut off groan as John stroked, inside, with only the tip of one finger— “there is— _ah_ —no need to go through every act in the guide step by step.”

 

“But I’ve been given such clear instructions.”  

 

Sherlock turned over, forcing John to draw back from his crouched position lest he be kicked in the head. There was a wet spot where Sherlock had been grinding, John was delighted to note. Sherlock’s abdomen was glistening with it, and John had the urge to bend down and lick it up.

 

“John, skip ahead.”

 

“Does this count as begging?” John wondered, pressing a kiss to the inside of Sherlock’s left knee. “I was told to expect that if I did a good enough job.”

 

Sherlock swatted at John’s hip, and spread his legs. In a falsetto voice, “Oh John, _please_ —”

 

This smart arse.

 

John kissed his bottom lip—the top one would have to wait its turn—and heaved Sherlock’s lean legs over his shoulders. With one finger, John confirmed that physically Sherlock was as ready as he was ever going to be. John opened his mouth to ask.

 

“John, if you ask me whether I’m ready one more time,” Sherlock warned, and John didn’t know how a man folded up like a lawn chair could sound so imperious, but did as he was told. Using his slick hand, John lined up his cock.

 

“You’re ready, right.” John focused. He exerted slight pressure, and was met with the expected resistance. When John hesitated, Sherlock’s heels dug into his back, and with a prolonged moment of push-pull, Sherlock won, and John pushed in.

 

There was a deep hum that seemed to originate somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock’s chest, and John could feel it wherever they touched (everywhere), and he was just managing to take one more breath after another. It’s his first time, John thought, though he didn’t know which one of them he was referring to. Breath in and out, John thought, as he pushed in, and in.

 

Sherlock’s hips were rocking up against him, and John started to move, as if he were just a piece in a Newton’s cradle. It was a slow grinding, John’s thrusts shallow, gentle, the perfect depth to rub against the prostate John has heard so much about, and the perfect closeness to rub Sherlock’s cock against his sticky abdomen. John’s arms were bracketing Sherlock’s face, and John learned from up close that the tears he had seen earlier were merely part of Sherlock’s experience, who was egging him on with legs clamping down and spindly arms wrapped round and round.

 

When Sherlock’s slack jawed gasps were frequent and his shaking hands clenched and unclenched along John’s back, John remembered that Sherlock preferred to have the finger removed during orgasm, and imagined that applied to cocks as well. John slipped out in time for Sherlock to shout out a startled, warbled groan against the top of John’s head, rut up against John’s stomach, and come against John’s chest, all before John could even reach down to assist.

 

From there, John could nothing but frot, and only needed a few more thrusts against Sherlock’s quivering abdomen till he shook apart in the loose loop of Sherlock’s arms. Better even than the intense build up and release was being caught after, Sherlock bundling him up in his limbs. Dazed, John knew that was meant to be his job as well; namely, the missing part of Sherlock’s past experiences.

 

“There you are, gorgeous,” John gushed, brushing Sherlock’s fringe back with his cleanest hand, and kissing him there along the hairline, where he had massaged Sherlock before. John kissed him across his brow, his cheekbone, his chin. John rubbed his shoulders, skirting across the dip in his neck, whispering, “You were wonderful.”

 

Gratifying, and amazing, and messy: Sherlock gasped his name, and clung, like anemone to a crab. "You were perfect,” Sherlock echoed. “I couldn’t have—ever imagined. It was everything I wanted.”

 

They were the gentlest words and the most quiet affection John believed he had ever received.

 

“Well,” John said, brushing a thumb over one of Sherlock’s eyebrows, “you did tell me exactly how to do it.”

 

Sherlock also told him to shut up, while leaning over the right side of the bed. From beneath, a wet flannel appeared. With great care, Sherlock began to clean off John’s chest and stomach. A short bout of bickering ensued when John insisted Sherlock use the flannel on himself, while Sherlock claimed John was his guest, and a host apparently had to wipe semen from his visitors before seeing to himself.

 

Amidst the giggling, after both had enjoyed the insufficient wash up that the cloth offered, Sherlock turned on his side and asked, “What was the name of your girlfriend? She used some terrible pseudonym online.”

 

“You mean my _ex_ -girlfriend, Michaela.” John laughed, covering his face with his hand, hoping they wouldn’t have to dwell on her for too much longer. “Mike, as we called her. Mike Stamford. She was an old friend from uni, but I promise I won’t be seeing much of her any more.”

 

Sherlock flapped his hand in John’s direction.

 

“Nonsense. You’ll have to see her when I send you over with the fruit basket.” At John’s blank stare, Sherlock explained, “To thank her for introducing us.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “John”
> 
> “Yes?”
> 
> “... I did know it was Valentine’s Day.”
> 
> “You cock! I knew it!”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] In Need of Quiet Affection and Gentle Words](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11454126) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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